Unfinished Symphony
by HanRic82
Summary: Set after season 5. Pandora's box has opened and all the hope is gone, but Root might not be... *Shoot centric
1. The sound of silence

AN: Hi all, this is my first Shoot fic. I can't believe it took me so long to catch onto this amazing programme. Anyway, it's currently only two chapters long but there is more if you want it, just let me know. It's also, currently, only rated M for language but that will change if you want the story to continue. Give it a read guy's and let me know what you think. Feedback is always welcome. Oh, and this is unbetad so please excuse any minor mistakes. Hope you enjoy :-)

 **Disclaimer: POI, it's story and it's characters, do not belong to me. I'm merely borrowing them for a short while. If they did belong to me, I'd be rich, and Root and Shaw would definitely get their own spin-off!**

1\. The sound of silence

 _If we're just information, just noise in the system, we might as well be a symphony._

That was the last thing I remember her saying to me. Oh, I know she said other things. Irrelevant things. Instructions, directions - inessential things like the chance of rain, or how many hours of daylight we had left - things that the Machine required her to relate to us for the good of our astronomical odds…

But that was the last thing I remember _her_ saying to _me_.

You know, the definition of a symphony is something characterised by a harmonious combination of elements? She would have enjoyed that. She would have smiled that smile that said she was so much more than a reformed killer for hire. That smile that proved she cared far deeper than any other analogue interface ever could. She'd have smiled _that_ smile, and she'd have agreed.

Finch would have been the conductor, the one responsible for keeping us together. Reese would have been the drums, the constant steady beat that suddenly exploded at the most vital point. I would have been the flute or harp, something so sickeningly soft and romantic that I'd take offence and roll my eyes in quite indignation. She of course, would have been the first violin. The one who took her cues from a higher power and led the rest of us in perfect synch.

Yeah, she would have liked that analogy, and she would have been right too. We _we're_ a symphony, once. But we aren't anymore.

Reese is dead. Finch and I haven't spoken in close to six months. And she…well she's just gone… All that's left of our symphony is the sheet music. The one thing that brought us all together in the first place. The Machine.

It still talks to me sometimes. It gives me the odd number to stop me from going insane, either that, or to stop my personality disorder from encouraging me to go on an unnecessary killing spree.

For a while after _that_ day, every time I answered the phone and heard its voice I felt my heart leap into my throat and my breath catch. I allowed myself to hope. For the tiniest of seconds, I willed myself to believe that somehow, against all odds, it was _her._ But the timbre of the voice was always slightly off, the inappropriate flirtations, missing, and I quickly realised that it would never be _her_ voice again.

The feeling that always came after that – a feeling that my stupid, incapable, brain always tried to bury deep – was so painful it was suffocating. That agonising, heart-breaking, moment when I remembered that it wasn't all just a horrible nightmare, that they really were, all gone… It was too much for someone so used to not feeling, it burned too long, and so once again, self-preservation taught me how to switch those feelings off.

People automatically assume that having an axis two personality disorder means that I don't have emotions - maybe I used to think that too - but someone once told me that it simply meant I was a radio with the volume turned way down. It turns out that they were right. I do have feelings. I care, I hate, I grieve and I love. The trouble is, I've only ever met one person with the ability to turn that volume up and she's no longer here.

So yes, I've become more reckless. My numbers nearly always end in someone's death, and my one night stands are purely physical. They're all just faces. The assholes I kill and the drunks I fuck, they're just nameless, shapeless, shadows. They're nothing. No-one. Insignificant.

Because when the symphony's finally over, all that you're left with is silence.

Do I miss them? Every minute of every day. Do I envisage all the different ways I could have saved them? Every second of every night. They were a splash of colour on an otherwise drab painting. They made me human. _She_ made me human. And boy, was she persistent in her pursuit.

From the moment, I met her – or more accurately, met one of her many aliases – to that very last firefight by the side of our car, she was my constant. Granted, she was a smug, arrogant, infuriating, constant, but she was always so much more than someone I fought with and occasionally fucked. She was an enemy, a friend, a colleague, a lover. She was… _she is_...the only person I could never kill. I once told her that together we'd be a four-alarm fire in an oil refinery, and maybe that's exactly what we were. Hot, violent, lethal and bright, but too volatile to burn for long.

Her continued absence makes this all the more real. That lone sniper, the water that doused that fire. I still look for her sometimes. On the motorbike that tears past me in the street. In the sound of a bullet shot from somewhere unknown. In the imagined staccato of Morse code through white noise. And sometimes – on a good day – she finds me. In the teasing laugh of a stranger at a bar or in the unexpected ringing of a telephone, but she never stays for long.

I often wonder if she knew about this all along. There was always a sense of urgency in the way she was with me. We went from strangers, to torture, to seduction in one brisk meeting and it only picked up pace from there. More than once she insinuated that she was only a tiny part of a much larger plan. Did she know at the start that she wouldn't live to see the end?

Does it even matter?

Because if she did know, then she certainly tried to make the most of our time together. Despite her irritating arrogance and endless innuendo's, she would always miraculously appear at exactly the right moment. When I was in danger, when I needed back-up, when I needed a reality check or just when I needed to burn off some _tension._ She was always there, the loyal sentry by my side. Of course, I'm not naïve enough to think it was all of her doing. I'm well aware of the hold the Machine had over her – probably more aware than anyone – but on those rare occasions when she wasn't in contact with it, she still somehow found her way back to me.

I guess that makes the real question whether or not I would have been different if _I'd_ have known our time was limited. Would I have pushed her away less and let her in more? Would I have told her all the things that I knew she desperately wanted to hear? Things that in retrospect, I probably wanted to say.

She was my constant, the only person I could never kill, but who was _I_ to her?

Goodbye isn't a word that holds much meaning to me. At least not since the day that I whispered it to my father's grave. But I'm now more aware than ever that I didn't say goodbye to her on _that_ day. Would it have made a difference if I had? Would it have made her think of me and swerve the other way? Should I have said more from the start?

The truth is, I could live that day – and the day we lost Reese – a million times over and still never get them right. I could have stopped Finch from walking in the opposite direction, but I didn't. I could have thanked them for saving my life all those years ago. I could have told John that I admired him, Harold that I respected him…I could have told _her_ that she got closer than anyone has ever been, but I never did.

The truth is, that the machine makes decisions based on simulations but in life we only get that one chance.

The truth is, that everything _is_ over and _the_ worst has happened, and all I can see in the bottom of Pandora's box, is regret.

When the music stops and the world falls away, the future you fought for seems meaningless.

The truth is, that I would sacrifice that future in an instant for the chance to hear _our_ symphony, just one, last time.


	2. Hello from the other side

2\. Hello from the other side

Einstein's theory of relativity is simpler than most people give it credit for. And no, I'm not just saying that because I'm a certified genius. Take time for example, the basic construct is that the passing of time is only relevant to the person perceiving it. So, for a three-year-old heading towards Christmas, the time it will take them to get there equates to a third of their life, thus the wait seems vast. However, to an eighty-year-old whose seen seventy-nine previous Christmases, the year just seems to fly by. The longer you live, the more time passes, and the faster life appears to move as a result.

It's been seven months since the day that I willingly took a bullet for a very dear friend, and I did it knowing full well, that from that moment, _they_ would all think me dead. What I didn't know, is that I wouldn't be able to correct them on that until half a year later.

She did warn me, that morning. She told me that if I wanted to save the world then Samaritan and the government, would need to believe that I was gone for good. She planned it to the last letter. The crash, the drug required to make me appear dead, every second of the twenty-four hours I had to wait before I could tell my friends that it was all a lie. What She didn't plan for, was the sniper lying in wait to take down, Harry.

The second I saw his trajectory and pinpointed his line of fire, I reacted. I made a split-second decision based on an innate need to protect someone that I care about, and I swerved the car. I'd hoped the bullet would miss me. I'd certainly never planned for it to embed itself six centimetres above my heart. I've been hit before, countless times, but I knew instantly, that this time is was different. When I finally lost consciousness at the wheel, surrounded by noise and police officers who cared little for my well-being, I honestly believed that I'd never regain it.

The next five months passed by in a moment, as time is prone to do when one spends most of it unconscious. I remember brief flashes. A crisp, white hospital room. Doctors. Samaritan operatives guarding the door. And I remember pain. The jagged cuts that ripped through my head when they forcibly removed my cochlea implant. The searing burn that set fire to my retina when they tried, temporarily successfully, to blind me. They broke me down and stripped me for parts, but yet, they still didn't beat me. Time paused in that facility, and because it paused, it has no real relevance in my life.

The six weeks since however, have been vastly different. From the moment, I snapped that guards neck and walked to my freedom, every second has felt like a year. It's not just the physical, though my bodies slow recovery certainly hasn't helped. It's the number of hours I've spent in complete silence.

Not many people know this, but I don't like being alone with my thoughts. I never have. It's the reason why I latched onto Hanna in such a way. Why I took up hacking when everything real in my life had fallen by the wayside. Why I was so relentless in my pursuit of Her _._ But for those first five weeks, I had nothing. No one. I was stuck in a seedy DC motel, too weak to even wash myself, and the haunting, self-deprecating, silence dragged endlessly on.

I don't blame Her for abandoning me in my hour of need. Not really. Despite the fact that I was never more than an arm's length away from the cell phone I stole from my guard, I understood that She had just fought a war. Like me, She needed to recover, and I knew She'd come back for me eventually. But idle hands are the devil's playthings, and I spent far too long laid on my back, starring at a stained, yellowing ceiling, thinking about all my past mistakes.

During those long weeks, I discovered that I've grown to hate myself for not being there at the end. That my stupid, uncontrollable, emotions caused me to make a decision that took me clean out the game. I had a role to play. I've always had a role. And when She needed me to fulfil it - when _they_ needed me to fulfil it - I was unconscious in the back of van, half way to Washington.

I also came to realise that by listening to Harold, I'd allowed myself to become vulnerable. I'd spent too long working with a few good people, and under their influence, I'd started to question my theory that all Humans were just bad code. I trusted the first doctor I saw when I woke up in that hospital bed. I thanked him for saving my life. I was an idiot for ever believing that my life was something of value to him.

But beyond all that, way below all the physical trauma and poor decisions, I found something much harder to face. Regret.

I left her. I left Sameen with nothing more than a fleeting glance over my shoulder and a confident smirk, and now she thinks I'm dead. It was only supposed to be twenty-four hours. Just twenty-four hours where she'd be too busy saving the world to even realise I was gone anyway. It was never meant to be seven months.

Reality has been a harsh wake up call. When you're tied to a hospital bed, drowsy from exhaustion and near constant pain, the rest of the world just blurs into nothing. But when it all comes rushing back, when you realise that time has kept moving forward even though you've stood still, the result is soul crushing.

I first heard Her voice again six days ago, and it…it sounded like the voice of an angel. And not in some narcissistic, how sexy is my own voice, type of way, but more, I was lost in darkness and you gave me light. For a brief, glorious second I allowed myself to believe that everything was going to be alright. That I was going to stroll back to the safe house, open the door, look at all their surprised faces and ask them if they missed me. Just like old times. Harold would be full of questions, John would offer me a wry smile and Shaw would be furious. She'd drag me off to the bedroom, scream at me for being reckless, and then we'd have the most intense fuck of our lives.

But I couldn't have been more wrong.

The first thing She told me was that John was dead. I blamed myself instantly. If I'd been there, if I'd done what I was supposed to do, if I'd only swerved outwards instead of inwards…

It only got worse from there.

Decima and Samaritan were gone but their operatives were not – something I could have guessed based on the months of torture I'd just endured – but she still saw them as enough of a threat to resume the war. She wanted me back. She wanted me to pick up my guns and continue the fight, only I no longer knew if I was strong enough.

She told me that Harold was still in New York, but that he now has very little to do with the numbers or his creation. He'd turned his back on it all, citing the pain of absent friends for his _retirement._ She told me how he reacted after the news of my death and I cried myself to sleep that night. I was the reason for his fall, just as surely as if I'd sat in front of his interface and programmed his bad code with my own two hands.

And Shaw…Sameen… she was the only thing that never left my thoughts in those weeks of isolation. I envisioned her life in so many different ways. Carrying on with our work alongside Harold and John. Giving it all up and moving to somewhere like Mexico, where I'd appear out of the blue, at the poolside one day, and she'd be so excited to see me. I'd hoped that whatever she was doing, she was happy, and that one day we'd find a way to finally figure things out. I never once dreamed that she'd just give up.

You see, I always knew she cared about me. I knew somewhere, deep down beneath those pouting lips and broody scowls, she had genuine feelings for me, but I never believed we'd be anything more than what we were. I didn't think she was capable of anything that real, and so I just assumed that she'd deal with my death the same way she dealt with everything emotional in her life, passively. I never expected her to visit my fake grave. I never thought she'd tell me goodbye. I never imagined she'd miss me.

Time is a strange concept. When Shaw went missing I would have burnt down entire cities to get her back. I did. Every second without her felt like one too long. And now, it's been several months since I last saw her, and I am so scared that when I finally return to her - that when I pick up this phone and dial her number - she'll finally reject me, and time will cease to exist at all.

I press call.

The phone rings.

And time slows to a halt.

"Hello?"

Her voice. The voice of my soul mate. The only thing that I've ever truly loved. Oh, how I've missed the sound of that voice.

Time starts again, speeds up, and my heart races with it. I swallow sharply, my throat dry, my breath heavy against the handset as I choke out my reply, "Hello, Sameen."

There's a pause, a moment that lasts a millennium, before, "You got a number for me?"

My breath catches as, overwhelmed by emotion, it takes my brain a few seconds to get up to speed. She thinks I'm, Her. She's completely dissociated my voice from that of the lover she used to know. I'm nothing but a machine to her now.

My instinct is to fight it. To burst into tears and try to tell her everything at once in nonsensical sentences, because when so much time has passed, you want to take it all back in an instant. Instead, I take a deep breath and push my emotions down, blurting out the first witty remark I can think to say. The sort of response she would have once expected.

"Well, Sweetie, I'll happily give you mine but that might be a bit presumptuous. It's been a while since we talked after all…"

This time the silence is hers, and I can almost hear the slight hitch in her breath as she dares herself to believe the impossible.

And then, she says the one word that we've both waited a lifetime to hear, and time completely stops.

"Root!?"


	3. The giggle at a funeral

AN: Hi guy's, thanks to your likes, follows and amazing feedback, I've decided to continue :-) I'll try not to keep you waiting so long between chapter this time. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think.

I hear her before I see her. It's an instinct left over from my government days. The heaviness of the footstep. The weight dispersal across the sole of the shoe. The length of each stride…

She was always light on her feet. Nimble as a cat, and graceful as a dancer. It was a sound I used to relish. The comforting tap-tap of heels on the steps of the subway station. The happy rhythm that told me she was safe, that she made it through another fight, unscathed.

Today, it's the sound of a ghost. One, that even as my heart beats faster, I'm not certain that I want to turn around and face. I catch her reflection in the mirror of the back bar and quickly avert my eyes. Some realities are simply too hard to confront, head-on.

"So, it really is, you?" I say, not quite certain how I'm supposed to feel, or even if I'm supposed to feel anything at all.

I sense her reach for me, hear the soft rustle of her infamous leather jacket, and stop her before she can make contact. "Don't!"

Touch is something too tangible. Touch is something that I've shied away from my entire life. A touch is intimate, personal, a silent show of emotion when words fail. A touch from _her_ , would undo me, and I need to be strong.

I signal to the good-looking bartender with designer stubble and a tight t-shirt. Maybe I'll seek comfort in his touch when this meeting is through. "Whiskey, double. Neat."

"Sameen…"

Her voice – my name – and that alone is enough to make me crumble. It's been too long since I heard that voice. Too long since I heard the inflection of her words or the remnant traces of a Texan twang. I'd long since accepted it as the voice of numbers. A robotic, meaningless drone, but this…this is different. This is warmth and passion, relief and love. This is all her, and it's too much yet not enough, all at once.

I block it out, my pride refusing to yield to her. She found the chink in my armour once and I'll be damned if I give her that power again."Reese, is dead."

There's less emotion there then I'd like, certainly less than he deserves, but with me there's no in-between. I either feel or I don't, and with her so close and so...alive…feelings are a weakness that I can't allow.

She exhales. A tired, enduring sound. She knows I'm deflecting. She also knows that I'm trying to punish her. "I know…"

Her words trail off as her voice breaks. This is clearly a hard topic for her but it's one that I refuse to avoid. When one lives a life of deception and betrayal there's always a price to be paid at the end. These thirty pieces of silver, are all hers.

"Let me guess," I hypothesise, already fully aware of the answer, "The Machine told you?"

I don't need to see her small nod to know her reply. Where she is my constant, the Machine has always been hers. It was the only thing I could never compete with. I down my drink and raise my glass towards Mr Good-looking, "Keep them coming, big guy."

I hear the drag of a bar stool across the floor, catch a hint of her smoky perfume in the air, and instinctively know that she's sat down by my side. There was a time that I would have turned to her, placed a hand on her thigh and bought her a drink, but that time has long gone.

The bar tender returns with a drink for us both and I almost tell him that she's paying for her own, but it's at that exact moment that I realise that although I missed her, I blame her. I blame her for what happened. I blame her for what she did. I blame her for coming back. And I want to hurt her as much as she has hurt me.

"I'm sorry I…" As if reading my thoughts, she begins to apologise for things that she can't be sure she's even done. It reminds me of the connection we used to share, the ability to know exactly what the other needed, and when. It's a memory I find too painful to relive, so I cut her off before she can finish.

"Wasn't there?" I reply, my words cold as I finally turn to face her. "That after all the times we saved your life you didn't hang around for long enough to try and save ours? Are you sorry that you made Finch hate himself for your sacrifice? That after all your years of endless preaching you're the one that the took the cowards way out when things got tough? What, Root? What could you possibly be sorry for in all of this?"

I didn't expect the passion in my diatribe – the anger – it seems that she stirs my emotions whether I want her to or not. Her expression falls at my unforgiving rant, hurt flowing through brown, puppy-dog eyes. It's only then that I really look at her.

Her hairs the same length, soft and glossy in long waves. Her fingernails are still painted black. And that godforsaken smirk is still plastered onto her expression. But she looks thinner if that's even possible, and aged. She looks like someone who has seen a lifetime of pain in the last seven months. Her skin is paler, her posture, more rigid, and yet I can't deny that she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I pick up my drink, my knuckles white as I grip the glass with enough force to break it, and silently curse myself for being foolish enough to look at her. She's a Siren - a perfect body housing a fatally flawed soul - and I was never able to resist her song. I down my second drink.

"Maybe you should slow down…"

"And maybe you should fuck off!" My voice is loud and my tone aggressive. She flinches from me, not in fear, more in surprise, and for the briefest of seconds I regret my hostility. "What are you even doing here?"

She sees straight through my act - just like she always used too - and knows that my coldness stems from my internal struggle rather than a lack of feeling. She knows me. She knows that for me, anger is often the same as love.

"If you didn't want to talk to me, then why did you agree to meet me?" Courteous as always, her response is to offer me a means of escape.

I swallow heavily and contemplate downing another shot because anything – anything – would be better than this conversation… But there's something in her voice, something in the soulful look in her eyes that makes my fingers pause on the lip of my glass. A hundred answers slip across my mind – hope, need, loneliness, love – but they're words that all die on my tongue. I'm a sociopath, and such sentiment has no place in my vocabulary. My thoughts are emotions that I can never own. Out of politeness, I offer her the word with least meaning.

"Curiosity."

She arches a perfect eyebrow and smirks. It's a fiercely dangerous yet wickedly seductive expression, one that she knows always works. "That's all?"

I take a sip of my whiskey and refuse to make eye contact, "That's all."

The smirk disappears, her brow creasing in a sad sort of smile. She can sense the change in me, the regression that her supposed death has caused. She knows that we might as well be back in a hotel room with fake names, zip ties and a hot iron.

"Okay, Sameen," she sighs, her back straightening in that way it always does when she's uncomfortable, "we'll play this your way. I'm sorry for what happened to, John. I'm sorry that Harold took the news of my death so badly. I'm sorry that I wasn't there during the final push, and I'm sorry that it ended up taking longer than twenty-four hours." She leans forward, emphasising the last two words, "I'm sorry!"

I scoff into my drink, wondering if apologies can even mean anything when spilled from the lips of a certified psychopath, "And that's just supposed to make everything better, is it?"

She tilts her head, either thinking about her answer or awaiting a response from The Machine, and takes a sip from her untouched Scotch. "No, but…"

"You call me up after seven months – seven months in which I thought you were dead – and you think that sorry is going to cut it?"

She shrugs, "It's all I have."

If I was an emotional person, I'd probably scream at her for giving me such an inadequate and unworthy response. She always said that I was the one with relationship issues when in reality, we're as equally as dysfunctional as the other.

"It's all you have," I repeat, my voice mocking until I realise how cruel her answer truly is, "What do you mean it's all you have?" My anger explodes suddenly, the burning rage too hot to contain. A four-alarm fire, indeed. "Try an explanation, or at the very least a fucking good excuse. You're sorry it took longer than twenty-four hours? What the fuck is that even supposed to mean?"

Her eyes close and she takes a deep, calming breath. I can almost hear her counting to ten in her head before she climbs down from her barstool. "This was a bad idea," she announces, reaching into the pocket of her leather jacket to pull out a business card, "I'm going to go. When you're sober and calm, you can find me at this hotel."

I snatch the card from her outstretched hand and down my drink, smacking the top of the bar to signal for a refill, "That's right, Root," I call to her retreating figure, "run away. Disappear. Do what _you_ do best…"

The words are harsh and if I'm brutally honest, a little unfair. She's always been open about her loyalty to The Machine and she always implied that this is exactly how it may end. But still, seven months and Reese's death later, and I'm still feeling a little bitter and unforgiving about the whole thing.

And no, none of it has anything to do with how I feel about her.

She turns on me then, the same fire in her eyes that always fuelled my arousal, "What do you want me to say, Shaw, hmm? Because right now, the only answers you're looking for are at the bottom of that glass."

Stubborn as always, I refuse to offer her a reply. My silence is enough to cause her to make for the door, "You know how to find me," she tosses back over her shoulder.

I half-smile at my victory. I want her to leave. Every bone in my body and synapse in my brain wants her gone… but there's something - a sensation I can't explain that comes from deep, deep, inside – that's begging for her to stay…

"What did you mean?" The words leave my mouth before I have time to think better of them and she stops in her tracks, her back to me, listening. "When you said, it should have only been twenty-four hours, what were you talking about?"

Her shoulders sag, the subtlest sign of defeat, "My death."

I didn't prepare for that. I didn't expect her to touch upon something so raw, but then I did ask. I glance down at the dark liquid in my glass desperate to feel it's burn over this empty, hollow ache inside, because anything has to feel better than this. "So, you did fake it?"

She glances back at me, "Ironically, no. But that was the original intention."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhausted by this never-ending merry-go-round we constantly seem to find ourselves on. Will we ever just sit down and be completely truthful with one another?

"Are you ever going to stop talking in riddles and just give me a straight up answer?" I ask.

She turns to face me again, her expression one of unbridled compromise, "Can I stay?"

I offer a one shouldered shrug in return.

My answer isn't enough and she gives me a look that I've seen about a hundred times before, it's the one that says 'I'm so close to giving up on you but I just can't let you go'. "Will you stop shouting at me for long enough to listen?"

I release an overexaggerated breath, "No promises."

She tentatively sits back down and we continue to drink in silence for several long minutes. More than once I open my mouth to start a conversation but every single time I let the words die on my tongue. I have nothing to apologise for because I did nothing wrong. I was a part of our symphony until the very end, I wasn't the one who walked out in the middle of the fourth movement. _She_ left _me_ , and after everything I've given her - the walls I broke down to let her in- I refuse to give her the satisfaction of knowing just how much that hurt.

She takes a dainty sip of her drink, her eyes fixated on the mirror behind the back bar, and finally breaks the silence between us. "She wanted Samaritan to think I was dead."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

I assume she's lying to me again, withholding the truth because it's not something I'm _entitled_ to hear. I always hated the intimacy of her relationship with that damned machine.

She immediately picks up on my disappointment, her pinkie finger stretching out across the bar top to brush against my knuckles. "You know how She works, Sam," she explains gently, "She never gives me the plan until a few seconds before I have to execute it."

Her touch is soft, warm, and entirely too much. Even something as simple as the brush of a hand can burn with the intensity of a fire when it comes from someone you thought you'd lost. I pull my hand from her reach, using my glass as an excuse when her expression falls. Even though she deserves it, I could never intentionally cause her pain.

"She wanted the enemy to think me dead," she continues, "and she calculated that it would take twenty-four hours to do so."

I snort into my drink and take a sip, my words more bitter than intended, "Pretty long twenty-four hours…"

"She planned a crash," she explains, ignoring my sly dig at her lengthy absence. "She gave me a drug that was slow getting into my system, it made me appear medically dead." She glances sideways at me, "I injected myself at the safe house…"

"When you were with me!?"

She nods.

For some reason, that's the hardest fact to swallow. I remember that conversation well, have relived it a thousand times over. So many nights I laid awake wondering what I could have said in response to her heartfelt confession that day. She told me that she wouldn't change a thing in her life and I knew that meant that as hard as it had been, it was because it had ultimately led her to me. I said nothing in return, and I've regretted my silence ever since.

To know now that even as she said that, she was plotting her fake death, it just makes me angry. Angry that she went through that alone. Angry that I've spent months feeling guilty for not saying more. Angry that even as she opened her heart, she still lied to my face.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She swirls her whiskey in the bottom of her glass, anything to avoid looking directly at me, "I wanted to but…" she shakes her head, "…I couldn't. She wouldn't let me."

That admission just makes it all worse.

"Everything we've been through together and yet you still prioritise that vacuous voice in your head, over us - your team -" I throw her own words back at her, " _Your_ symphony…"

Her eyes meet mine then, searching, desperate and sad, "Sameen, I never prioritised…"

"Save it, Root," I silence her with a dismissive wave of my hand. I've lost too many hours correcting a wrong that I never had control of in the first place, and I've wasted my last night of sleep on wondering how I could have saved her that day.

My anger spikes once more, "Did you know when _it_ spoke to me? When _it_ gave me numbers in your voice? Were you listening on the other end? Were you laughing at me?"

"Of course, not!" She sounds offended, but with her even that could be a charade. Samantha Groves, the master of deception.

"Well I sure feel like the punch line of the biggest fucking joke, now! Do you know that Reese didn't even need to say anything to me? He just took Fusco's call and turned to me with this sad, pitying look…I hate to be pitied!"

I try to tell myself that hatred was what I felt the moment that I discovered she was gone but the truth is, the truth is something I'm not sure I'm even ready to admit to myself. The truth is seven months of empty, meaningless days. The truth, is a bullet to the heart of a sniper.

"I'm sorry…"

"You've been saying that since the second you walked into this bar and quite frankly, it's getting old."

Something in her finally snaps and she downs the rest of her whiskey, turning to face me, head on. There's a look in her eyes that I haven't seen in a long time, a fierce reminder that I was far from perfect during our time together and that she's done being my punching bag.

"You wanted me to apologise and I have," she states, her voice firm, "and I know that a few words can't make up for all the shitty things that happened but I can't change the past, Sameen. We all knew that this was war. We all knew that there would be casualties and we all willingly continued to fight anyway. If I'd stuck around after that day maybe Harold wouldn't have made the decisions he did. Maybe John would be sat here with us right now, or maybe, the entire world would have come to an end. The truth is, we have no idea what _may_ have happened and if you're waiting for me to apologise for choosing the path I thought best, then you're going to be a waiting a very long time. I can't control fate Sameen, I can only play the hand that I'm dealt."

"Oh, don't give me all that fate bullshit," I reply, giving just as good as I receive. "If your machine really is a God then you know damned well that you're its mouthpiece. You knew exactly what was going to happen on that day and you chose not to tell me. Just like you always do."

The fight deserts her after that, the truth a blow that maybe hits a little too close to home. Only she knows how many times she's forsaken us for that soulless machine. Only she lives with the guilt of her last-minute decisions. Was she too blame for Reese's death? That's something neither of us will ever know. But will she live with the burden of that thought for the rest of her life? Of that, I'm absolutely certain. Root may act like a ruthless killer, but she feels things deeper then I could only ever dream.

"I don't know every possibility," she replies, her voice losing its strength, "I just know the highest probability…"

"But _it_ does!" I try to take some of the blame from her shoulders because I fear that if I don't, the sheer weight of it will crush her. I never intended this conversation to be a personal attack, I just want her to realise that her unwavering loyalty to a bunch of code is unhealthy. I gently lower my voice, "You said it yourself, Root. It sees everything."

"She was trying to save us!" An interface to the end, she would defend The Machine until her dying breath.

I shake my head and signal the bar tender for two more drinks, "It was trying to save itself!" I argue, certain that if the choice was The Machine or me then I'd be joining Reese at that spiritual bar. "If It had told you that John was going to die, that Harold was going to give up, would you have still followed through with its plan?"

"I…" she hesitates, torn between her comrades and her God. I find that it's all the answer I need.

"We both know you would," I reply for her, trying not to think of the tightness forming in my chest. "Hell, Root, you died for that damned machine."

Our fresh drinks are placed down on the bar but the liquor has lost its appeal. Root's head drops, our argument forcing her to admit what we both already knew. "She needed me…"

"Reese needed you! Finch needed you! I…" I choke on the sentence, the sentiment behind it more than I've ever confessed to anyone, "…I needed you!"

She swallows sharply, unable to make eye contact as she fights back tears. When words finally come they don't sound very convincing, "It was John's decision and John's choice, and ultimately, none of us were there for him. Harold…Harold has always felt guilt over his creation, and you…" she shakes her head, "Sameen you've never _needed_ anyone. Least of all, me."

If I really wanted to right a wrong, I could correct her on that and tell her what I wish I'd told her during our last conversation at the safe house. Instead I deflect, because that's what I do, I deflect my emotions.

"So, what _are_ you doing here?" I ask.

She picks up her drink, sniffs it, and puts it back down, untouched. "The war isn't over, not yet. There are operatives out there who want to bring Samaritan back online. They've been conducting research, trying to figure out how to create a new interface…one like Hers."

There's something hidden behind her words, a story begging to be told, but I'm tired of this constant rift between us and I'm tired of being the consolation prize. If Root knows something I don't, then it's up to her to tell me. Otherwise, I'll just assume that her precious machine is looking out for her. "How do you know this, Root?"

Her eyes dart around, nervously, "…She told me…"

"Un-fucking-believable. It benches you at the most inappropriate time, forces you to keep your survival from us for months and fails to save Reese, and _you're_ still taking orders from it!?"

I don't know why I'm surprised. You'd think by now I'd have learnt that nothing will keep her from it. I guess, if I'm honest with myself, the truth is that I'm hurt. This is the first time I've seen her in more than half a year and the only reason she's here at all is because The Machine told her to come.

She seems to catch onto my realisation, "I'm the only one left who'll listen!" she explains, as if that alone is enough.

But that's always been our problem.

I down my drink and stand up, picking up my coat, "Then I guess it's got you right where it wants you. Just like it always did."

She grabs onto my forearm, an attempt to prevent me from leaving that feels like so much more, "Will you help us?" she pleads.

" _Us?"_ I spit, unable to believe what I'm hearing. _"_ You're an _us,_ now?" When she looks away, I roughly yank my arm free of her grasp. "You know, this was always the issue with us, Root. I know you think my condition is the reason why we fucked more than talked but it was never about me. It was always about you. You and your strange, twisted, relationship with that voice in your head."

"A voice that's saved all our lives countless times…"

"A voice that betrayed us all, in the end!"

She senses my resolve, detects my disgust, and reels back from me, "You don't trust me!?"

"I don't trust _It_ ," I correct, my chest deflating under the sadness of what I'm about to say, "and honestly, I have no idea where Root ends and the Machine begins anymore. Not since you got that damned implant anyway."

She feigns humour but I can see the pain in her expression, the tears welling in her expressive eyes, "Oh Sweetie, you know that's just an excuse. A convenient rationale to explain your intimacy issues."

I feel a stab to my own heart at the truth of her words but instead of admitting she's right, I deflect once more. "You really think that's what this is? You turn up out of the blue after seven months without a word, and you think my anger and mistrust is based on intimacy issues? Is this even you speaking to me right now, or is that voice in your ear telling you what to say?"

Her expression sobers, "She never tells me what to say to you."

"I don't believe you!"

Though I know she spoke from the heart I can't bring myself to accept her words. This has turned into something so much more than a simple conversation. It's more than the mission - bigger than our relationship - this is about what's important, and it's clear to me now that nothing will ever be as important to Root, as that machine.

I shrug my jacket on, "You relate to that machine more than you relate to anything flesh and blood. It's the reason why it picked you in the first place."

I move to step past her but find that I can't leave until I say what I came here too. "The hardest thing to accept in all of this, is that even after everything it put us all through, you _still_ chose it over us." I shake my head, amazed that its actually possible to hurt more now, then if ever did when I thought I'd lost her. "I don't know who you are, Root, and I'm beginning to think that I never did."

A single tear rolls down her cheek and I take a sick sort of pleasure from the realisation that the psychopath can cry… "Sameen, you know me better than anyone…"

"No, I don't!" I reply, "I don't know you better than that _thing_ in your head. It knows _everything_ about you. It monitors you constantly. It knows how you think, what you feel, it can predict your actions with pinpoint accuracy. It controls you."

"She's not controlling me now."

I roughly grab her chin and yank her head towards me, pushing the hair behind her ear where her implant lies "Of course it is because…" I look for the tell-tale sign of her direct line with the machine but all traces of the implant have gone. In its place is a scar, a new one, adjacent to the one left after her stapedectomy. "What's this scar?" I ask, tracing its length with tip of my finger, "And where's your implant?"

Fear suddenly overtakes all rational thought as I look deep into her eyes. She would never voluntarily sever her link to The Machine. No, that was done by force. "Root, what happened to you?"

She pushes me away, quickly rearranging her appearance and covering her ear, dismissing the very idea that anything is wrong. "I'm fine," she replies, "the scar is nothing and the implant…is gone…"

"Where have you been?" I press, no longer in the mood for her games, "Answer me!"

"It doesn't matter."

She's lying, and I'm just about done with her excuses. I have given her every chance to be honest with me and yet still she chooses to keep me in the dark. "Of course, it doesn't," I agree, ready to admit defeat one final time, "because it's something that only you and it need to know, right?"

I get half way to the door before turning on my heel, "You know," I begin, storming back over to her, "I don't know if I'd give what you and I had a name but I sure as hell know that there was always three people involved, and I was always the most expendable to you both. If you want to take down what's left of Samaritan to protect your God then go do it – be _its_ hero - but don't expect me to care enough to help. I'm done with this, sick, threesome."

My heart is pounding, and though I'd never admit it under torture, my hands are shaking too. The only women I've ever been willing to die for has finally returned to me and yet the only thing she's prepared to give her life for, is a soulless piece of technology. I almost wish that she'd stayed dead because honestly, the dream is far better than the reality.

"I guess I'll see you around, Root," I state, brushing past her as I head towards the exit. "If your God decides it's willing to let you live that long."


	4. Just a little human

AN: Thank you for all the latest likes, follows and reviews, they help to feed my muse. The more musical amongst you may have noticed that my chapter titles are lyrics from well-known songs. I just thought I'd say that the title of this chapter is taken from a song called Human by Christina Perri. The reason I picked it is because I always thought it perfectly described Root's inner thoughts to both The Machine and the team, and I always thought it would make a fab video. Anyway, thanks again for your continued support, and I hope you all enjoy. Let me know what you think 😊

 _Dear Harold,_

 _What happened wasn't your fault. You spent our entire relationship trying to change me, trying to make me better, but the one thing you never saw was the bigger picture. From the day I became Her analogue interface, I always knew that it would end like this. I was one tool in a much larger box, I was a means to an end, and I entered this war fully aware that I would be a casualty of it._

 _Ever since Hanna I've lived my life on the edge. I think somewhere, deep inside, it's because I always knew this was my destiny. You said that I didn't care about the people that I killed and most of the time, I didn't, but only because I saw the world through her eyes. In the grand scheme of things, the macrocosm of the universe, we are nothing. Individual life, is nothing. It's the harmonious whole that matters, and Samaritan's very existence threatened that._

 _The day you first spoke to Her, you weren't just programming code you were creating life. I know you know that, and I know that it scares you, it makes you feel like Dr Frankenstein with his out of control monster. You think that you're playing with forces that no human has a right too. But She isn't a monster Harry, She's a God. A young one, barely more than child and still trying to find her wings, and she needs you now, more than ever before._

 _You created something beautiful. You created an artificial intelligence with the ability to save billions of lives. But She can only do that if you guide Her. You tried so hard to save me. Why do you now refuse to save, Her?_

 _Do you remember that day I told you that I believed all humans were bad code? I believed that because I never knew love, or friendship, or compassion. I lived well, but only after I started killing people for a living. I guess what I'm trying to say, is that_ _I_ _was bad code. At least, I was until the day that I started working with you. You changed me - all of you - you made me better. I was angry, lonely, bitter, but you opened my heart to a world that I'd never known before. A world that wasn't so quick to shut me out._

 _But despite that, despite all that you did and the friendship you offered, I was just a little too damaged to ever be fully fixed. So yes, I may have been ruthless. At times, my methods may have been unethical. I did what no one else could do. I took the jobs that none of you should have ever had too, but I promise you Harry, my intentions were always pure. You ensured that._

 _You don't know this because She never wanted you too, but my priority – my entire job - was always to protect_ _you_ _at all costs. I was hired as your guardian angel, and I died fulfilling my duty. More importantly, I willingly sacrificed myself to save a very good friend._

 _I know how you'll react when you read this. You'll want to find me, to bring me home, but my last request is that you don't look for me. Grieve for me, forget me, and move on, because by the time you find me Harry, I'll already be gone._

 _Please don't abandon, Her. You are, and will always be, the most important thing to Her. My death is_ _not_ _your fault. It isn't Hers either. It was simply time for me to disconnect from the system._

 _Your ever-faithful friend,_

 _Samantha Groves_

 _XXX_

 _Lionel, Lionel, Lionel…a rose by any other name,_

 _When she first told me about your namesake – the lion cub at the zoo – I laughed. I laughed, because to me (at that time), you were more akin to the cowardly lion from the Wizard of Oz than the king of the jungle. In retrospect, it might have been your curly hair, or the way you always looked slightly alarmed and wholly uncomfortable whenever I entered a room. Either way, my assumption was wrong._

 _You don't need me to tell you that we're chalk and cheese, two completely different souls united under the same banner. I know you didn't understand half of what I said. I know you thought me certifiably insane. Well guess what Big Guy, I thought you were unnecessarily anal about, well everything, and had terrible dress sense. But despite that, despite our mutually traded insults and forced tolerance, we shared a deep and hidden respect for each other._

 _I always respected your sense of justice and unwaverable loyalty. I trusted that when you said you'd be somewhere, you would be, no matter how dire the situation. You pulled us all out of the fire on numerous occasions and for that, I will never be able to thank you enough. The truth is Lionel, you_ _were_ _the honour amongst thieves. John, Sameen, myself, we're killers, before Her, we were the reason you stayed in work. We were the threat you protected the innocent from. You were, and have always been, everything we were not. She brought us together, a dysfunctional band of misfits that would ultimately save the world, and for better or worse it was the best decision She ever made._

 _I may have acted as though I didn't care, that you were some sort of joke to me, but I promise you that's never how I felt. You're an asset to the force, an ally to Her, and a comrade to me._

 _It took me a long time to see it, but you were never the cowardly lion I once mistook you for. You have courage, so much more than most will ever have, but you also have brains and heart. You're the full package, Lionel, and we were lucky to have you._

 _I am truly honoured to have fought this war by your side (and no, I'm not smirking as I write this)._

 _Stay safe my friend,_

 _Cocoa Puffs_

 _XXX_

 _John,_

 _Where do I even start? How, can I ever begin to the right the wrongs I did to you. I don't know if my leaving (however involuntary) had any influence on what happened to you that day, but a part of me will always feel that I let you down._

 _I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not being there. I'm sorry that I couldn't help Her save you, and I'm sorry that's how it ended. You didn't deserve that. You were a good man. A loyal man. You were the best of us._

 _I never really got to know you until Sameen went missing. I regret that. I thought you were Harold's lap dog, a man who wanted to change the world but didn't actually have the balls to do it. I was wrong, and I apologise. You were one of the bravest people I have ever met. You found the perfect balance of ruthlessness and compassion. In the field, you were our moral compass, and when Sameen went missing, you were exactly what I needed, when I needed it. You stood back and let me threaten and torture, and you pulled me back from the brink when I teetered on the edge of darkness. You were my rock during that time, and I'm sorry that I never told you that. I'm also sorry that I never returned the favour._

 _I once told Sameen that we were a symphony and at the time, I was only thinking about her and I. On reflection, I realised that all of us together made the symphony, and with you gone, we're just weren't anymore._

 _There's an old Irish saying 'may you be in heaven a full half-hour before the Devil knows you're dead'. Well I'm coming to join you buddy, so buy me drink at the bar and when our thirty minutes is up, together we'll show the Devil who's really in charge._

 _Looking forward to seeing you soon,_

 _Root_

 _XXX_

 _Sameen,_

 _I know you won't appreciate this, I know you'll take one look at it, roll your eyes and probably use it too clean your guns with. As you're not likely to read it, I guess it's just as well that I'll never send it, but at the moment I'm feeling kind of emotional, so humour me._

 _I could start by explaining what happened. Her and I had a plan and it went to shit the second I saw a sniper aiming at Harry. I took a bullet for him, and though I'm writing this retrospectively, at the time I knew it was a fatal one. I've been shot more times than I can count (well, probably not), but I know how it feels. This was different. This wasn't a sharp, stinging, pain. This was, it was numbed somehow, almost ethereal. I could hear my pulse in my ears, feel the oxygen struggle to pump through my veins, yet I was strangely calm. I was ready. Sameen, I knew I was dying, and I was at peace with it. The only thing that truly hurt in that moment was that I knew I would never see you again, and I would have given anything for one last chance to say goodbye._

 _I know you'll pretend those words don't mean anything to you, but I also know that you mourned for me. That you cried for me. Yes, you have an axis 2 personality disorder - you're a sociopath - but guess what honey, I'm a psychopath, and those two things go perfect together. I kill for fun and you kill because you don't feel remorse, but when it comes to each other – like it or not – something changes._

 _I love you. There, I said it. I LOVE YOU. And believe me when I say that I've never said those three words before. I'm also not saying them to make you feel uncomfortable. If I'd wanted that I would have taunted you with them every day. I'm saying them – and it's selfish really – I'm saying them because I need too._

 _The truth is, I've searched my whole life for someone that just gets me and I finally found her, I found you. I think we probably have the strangest relationship on record but it's ours, and even if no one else gets it. We do._

 _So, what do I love about you? I know this is a question you're asking, because I know that there's a part of you that believes you're unlovable. The irony is, that doubt – that vulnerability – is exactly the reason why I do. I love you because you're beautiful. I love you because you're strong and intelligent. I love you because you're kinky in bed and hot as hell. I love you because even though you say you can't love me, I see it every time you look at me. I love you, because the things that make you different, are the things that make you mine. And you are mine, Sameen, now and always. That's one thing we can both agree on._

 _I'm sorry I left the way I did, it was never my intention. I would NEVER voluntarily leave you, but I always knew that I wouldn't survive this war. It's the reason why I pursued you so relentlessly in the first place. I wanted to know what love truly felt like – just once – before life just passed me by. I'm sorry if I forced you out of your comfort zone and I'm sorry (not sorry) if I left a few new scars behind, but know this. You were worth it. You were worth every sleepless night (in pleasure and fear), every jealous remark, every lame pick-up line, and every bullet. What I'm trying to say is,_ _you_ _are worth it. I know you don't believe in yourself, but I believe in you. I always did._

 _In the future, someone, somewhere, will fall for you, and when they do, I want you to remember me. I want you to remember what we had, and I want you to know that you are worthy. That you can be loved._

 _Thank you for being my purpose in life,_

 _Thank you for just being you,_

 _Yours forever,_

 _Root_

"I am detecting lower than usual serotonin levels. Is Analogue Interface, suffering from depression?"

Her voice breaks through the solitary darkness, scattering my fractured thoughts to pull me back from the abyss. My mind has always been my greatest enemy, the gaps between the daring heists and deadly firefights a no man's land of self-doubt and deep regret.

I stare down at the last of my handwritten letters, to the dried ink and the words that bare my very soul on four crumpled, bloody, pieces of paper.

"I'm not depressed," I say aloud, aware that she can hear every word through the speaker on the phone in my jacket pocket. "I'm sad. But thanks for asking."

Her concern is touching. Some people like to wallow in their misery but I've never coped well on my own. She knows that, and where others have abandoned me, she knows that nothing good ever came from leaving me alone with my demons.

"Is your melancholy a result of re-reading those letters, or is it the result of your surroundings?"

I sigh, the disembodied voice a helping hand that unknowingly drags me back to a reality I was desperately trying to escape. I look up to the headstone directly in front of me, to a grave so new that the grass is yet to grow back, and reach out to gently trace my fingers along the deep grooves of John's name.

"Both," I reply, my voice barely more than a whisper as I realise my cheeks are wet with tears.

"Then why does Analogue Interface choose this activity?"

I think of the journey I've taken, of the rocky path that brought me back to New York and of the somewhat shorter, dead-ended one that lies ahead.

"It's complicated" I shrug, unsure how to articulate feelings that even I don't understand. My grip on the letters in my hand tightens, "When I wrote these, they were a form of catharsis for me," I explain, remembering the literal blood, sweat and tears that went into every word, "but I never actually expected anyone to read them…"

My voice trails off, the memory of writing Harold's after a particularly gruelling operation with no painkillers. Of writing John's while recovering in that crappy motel room, full of grief and heartbroken guilt. Of mentally writing Shaw's while enduring Samaritans latest torture. Find a safe place she had said, and I did. It was her…

Then, they were the unspoken thoughts of a broken warrior. The hidden feelings of respect, friendship, gratitude and love that one so socially dysfunctional could never say aloud. Now however…

"…now they could be a final parting gift."

She pauses, that same way that she always does when She finally figures out my train of thought and realises that She doesn't like it. "Does Analogue Interface intend to go back to the Samaritan facility alone?" If Her voice could express emotion, that would have been tinged with fear.

My reply is instant, "I do."

"I have run over ten thousand simulations, and without the assistance of Admin, Primary Asset Shaw, and Asset Fusco, Analogue Interface will not survive."

I love the way She cares, it's not the same as it with people. With people it's an outpouring of emotion, a hidden agenda to make the intended party feel bad. She doesn't try to manipulate me like that. She simply states the facts.

I briefly wonder how it's even possible for there to be ten thousand simulations of one job, and how many times She helplessly watched me die before scrubbing the whole thing clean and starting again. But in the end, it doesn't really matter, because all those simulations – my odds of survival – they're irrelevant. All that matters, is that She lives to see another day.

"I know," I reply, reaching up to swipe a stray tear from the end of my nose.

"I do not recommend that…"

"I know you don't," I cut in, making it clear that despite Her protestations, my decision is already made. While I appreciate having Her voice to comfort me in the dark, hearing it remind me of my inevitable death can be somewhat annoying, and highly inconvenient.

"Please explain?"

I glance back down to the letters in my hand, to the headstone shinning in the late afternoon sun, and ponder the near impossibility of explaining a reasoning so chaotic, to a God who presides through order.

"I'm not sure I can," I reply. "For all your advancements – your conscience – there are some things about being human that I'm not sure you'll ever understand."

"Self-preservation is a primary goal for all humans."

I smile at her response. As robotic as it may appear, it's laced with fraught desperation. She's worried about me, and She's expressing that by trying to understand.

"True," I agree, sitting cross-legged next to John's grave when my knees begin to ache from crouching, "but we also have a saying. Sometimes you have to sacrifice the few to save the many."

"So, Analogue Interface intends to sacrifice herself? To protect me?"

There's definitely fear there, maybe even a trace of panic. My smile widens, "You protect everyone. If Samaritan is allowed to come back online, then no-one is safe." I shrug, "I can't let that happen."

"Admin, Primary Asset Shaw and Asset Fusco would not want that to happen, either."

I sniff, and wipe away a fresh tear. Now, She's hinting that I should tell the others, her calculations indicating that a heroic victory lies in a Team Machine reunion. Harold insists that She doesn't care about us, but it's heart-warming to see just how far She's willing to go in order to protect Her Analogue Interface. I shake my head.

"I fear that that they no longer care. _I'm_ all you have left."

"I do not want Analogue Interface to sacrifice herself for me."

Sometimes, just sometimes, talking to Her is akin to talking to a spoilt child. I know that She doesn't want me to get hurt, but She can hardly set me a task and then sulk over the way I chose to execute it. "Your concern is sweet but in this, you don't get a say."

Silence follows. The sort of prolonged quiet that indicates She's running scenarios and making calculations. I know Her efforts yield little hope when Her unusually manipulative response, finally comes.

"Primary Asset Shaw would be adversely effected by the death of Analogue Interface."

I smirk, impressed by her improved level of humanity despite feeling betrayed by Her decision to include my one weakness in our conversation. Sameen.

"Are you trying to emotionally blackmail me?" I ask, raising a questioning eyebrow, "That's new."

"I do not understand the term, 'emotionally blackmail'." My smile widens. "Since the start of this conversation, I have run four-hundred and twenty-six simulations, all of which result in Primary Asset Shaw's total detachment from feeling."

I think on that calculation for a minute, trying to imagine a simulation where Sameen openly expresses her feelings. Sadly, the vision never comes. I love Sameen. I think I have since the day I first came across her file in in the office of special counsel, but she will never be my knight in shining armour. The best I can hope for is some well-timed cover fire and a biting comment.

"She's a sociopath," I reply, having already accepted her for who she is, "That's her life every single day."

"Analogue Interface is upset by the outcome of her reunion with Primary Asset Shaw."

I swallow sharply, Her insight cutting deeper than any sniper bullet ever did. Yes, I accept Sameen for who she is, I love her for it, but even during the worst times – my nagging, our ever-decreasing odds, her brutal torture at the hands of Samaritan – she never abandoned me. I never thought that a day would come when I'd have to watch her walk away.

"She was just so cold…"

"I detected no abnormalities in Primary Asset Shaw's body temperature."

I laugh bitterly at the misunderstanding, forgetting, for a moment, how literally She interprets everything. "Not what I meant."

The next thing I hear is a strong, yet unsteady heartbeat, pulsing through my earwig. I frown, "What's that?"

"During the course of your reunion, I did detect several abnormalities in Primary Asset Shaw's heart rate. I also detected increases in blood pressure, testosterone levels, pupil size…"

"You're saying she was aroused?"

"Affirmative."

I smirk, feeling something of my old self stirring inside, "Well I already know that I turn her on!"

"Not all arousal is sexual," she replies, the factual response quickly deflating my ego. "Primary Asset Shaw experienced several types of arousal while conversing with Analogue Interface. Sexual arousal was only one of them."

I'm reminded of the way she looked at me, the way she accused me of treating her as second best… as if I could ever see her as anything other than my reason for living…

"Great," I scoff, "so I pissed her off!?"

"Primary Asset Shaw cares for Analogue Interface."

I bite back on my choice reply, aware that the pain I feel inside doesn't justify such a cruel, unfair, dismissal of her character. It's not Sameen's fault that her emotions are switched to practically non-existent. It does however, only serve to widen the growing distance between us.

"She doesn't care enough," I finally admit, the realisation that we'll never want the same thing weighing heavy on my heart. I feel like I'm suffocating, the world around me crumbling to ash. What was the point of it all? Why did she fight so hard to return to me? Why did I struggle against all odds to survive that bullet if it was only ever going to end like this?

My decision made, I take a deep breath, "When you're safe and I'm…" the word sticks in my throat, "…gone, will you make sure Harry, Lionel and Shaw, get these?" I wave the letters in the air.

There's a pause, a moment of hesitation before, "I do not want Analogue Interface to undertake this task."

I smile, Her heartfelt response a much needed lifeline that I needed to hear, "Then it's just as well that I don't need your permission," I reply softly.

I stand to leave but She does something that I've never heard Her do before and it stops me in my tracks. She begs.

"Root, please…?"

There's a strange sort of irony in the fact that She can find the emotion required to ask me to stay, when Sameen could only tell me to leave. Flesh, blood, code and servers aside, who's really the machine?

I stop, thrusting my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket as I try to formulate an appropriate response. A response that She, deserves.

"I know you don't want this," I state, understanding the desperation behind her plea. "I know that it wasn't the ending you planned for me, and maybe time will prove that Harold was right to call me Hubris… but you know that I'm ready to die for you, for _all_ of you, and you know how important this mission is."

In this instance, hubristic is the operative word. I've always been a proud, overconfident person, but I'm also an intelligent one. I know this is a suicide mission – returning to the facility where I was held prisoner for seven months – but I also know that it's a job that has to be done.

I smile sadly knowing that somewhere, somehow, She'll see the gentle expression, "You know, you've been the best friend I've ever had?" I admit somewhat remorsefully. "You've taught me so much, helped me to evolve into someone I never imagined I could be. You know everything about me…"

I think of the person I was before this all began, the bitter, twisted, psychopath that saw humanity as a disease, and fatalistically wonder where I'd be now, if it wasn't for Her.

"…But the one thing I sometimes think you forget, is that even though I act, think and talk like you, I'm not you. I'm human, and my wounds don't ever fully heal. My guilt doesn't ever really dissipate, and love…love just hurts me…" I swallow the tight lump in my throat, the one that forms whenever I think of Sameen, and wipe away a stray tear. "I wish I could see the world as simply as you do but those pesky little emotions keep getting in the way. I guess what I'm trying to say, is that I've taken everything this world has thrown at me, and I've finally had enough. I'm done, with trying to escape from my fate"

I glance back down at the letters in my hand, finding and removing the one I wrote to John. I pin it, underneath a rock, to the top of his headstone and look towards the sky, a silent promise.

"You'll know when it's done."


	5. Feeling your echoes

AN: Hi all, so sorry for the massive delay between chapters but I've been picking up some overtime at work. I only hope the wait was worth it. Thank you again for all your messages and follows, your support really does inspire me. Please forgive any minor mistakes, and let me know what you think.

 **Help, her!**

I stare down at my phone, the Machines instruction an unwanted SOS that bathes my dark bedroom in a soft blue hue. Help, her? Why? She never needed my help before.

I think of the way she introduced herself to us. Kidnapping Finch, tricking Reese, threatening me with torture. Even when I hated her, I always admired her. She's brilliant, intelligent, a ruthless killer and a master of disguise. She earnt her millions and built her reputation with the criminal underworld on nothing but guaranteed discretion and deadly accuracy. She didn't need us then. Why would she need us now?

The lingering throb of too much whisky pulses at my temples and I drop the phone onto the bed beside me and close my eyes. The truth, is that I've wasted my last bullet trying to protect a woman who doesn't even trust me enough to be honest with me.

It takes five seconds for my phone to vibrate again.

 **Please!**

I know that somewhere beneath the anger and mild irritation there's a poetic sense of irony in a God reduced to begging, but I'm just too far gone to care. I saw her today. She was there. She was real. She was alive. And she looked so beautiful and smelt so good, and every part of me wanted to reach out to her and never let go…

But I don't do that!

I'm not the woman that misses a lover so much that she feels like she can't breathe. I'm not the person who aches for the presence of someone else. I'm a sociopath, the bitch that doesn't care if you live or die, as long as you don't get in my way while doing it.

At least I used to be…

I hate the person that she – that all of them – have made me become. I hate that it hurts that she planned to fake her death and didn't deem me important enough to tell. I hate knowing that the only reason she returned at all, was to seek my help, and I hate it even more that it bothers me so damned much. But most of all, I hate that even as I ignore these messages from her God, every last inch of me is crying out to respond.

There's another buzz.

 **050313**

She's always had a martyr complex. From the day, she surrendered herself to Control, to the day she took Jeffrey Blackwell's fatal bullet for Harold she's had little regard for her own life. This mission, whatever it entails, is no different, and I'm certain that this day won't be her last either.

I remember the first time I challenged her on it. She'd charged straight into Martine's line of fire with little concern for her own safety. Sure, seeing her do it was hot as hell, especially that manic look of enjoyment on her face and the twin guns she wielded so expertly. But it was also stupid, and dangerous. She took two bullets that day – two bullets that I had to quickly patch up as she winced and groaned in the bad type of pain - and why? Because she considers herself as nothing more than the cannon fodder of this unwinnable war.

When I asked her why she was so eager to sacrifice herself, she just grinned that grin that says she knows something I don't and slipped her hand into my pants.

I guess I just gave up asking after that. You see, the thing with Root is that she's far more skilled then she'd have people believe. I laughed when Harold first implied that she could have killed us all if she'd wanted too. I couldn't imagine how a skinny, frail, obnoxious, nerd who spent most of her time attacking her enemies from behind a computer, could ever hurt me. And then I watched her take out six Russian agents through a closed door. Oh, Root is talented alright, and with the machine whispering into her ear I'd be willing to bet that she's damned near invincible.

Rolling onto my back, I stare up at the colourless ceiling above me, "If you think giving me her number will get me to help you then you really don't know me at all," I say aloud, to the empty room. "We both know that she'll get out of whatever precarious situation you've sent her into. She did survive a sniper's bullet, after all."

On the bed, my phone vibrates again.

 **Current chance of survival for Analogue Interface: 1.68%**

I snort loudly, briefly wondering how many other times our odds have been that low. "That bad, huh?" I reply, acting nonchalant despite the surge of adrenaline shooting out to every muscle in my body and driving me to save her. "Sounds like I'm probably too late."

This time my phone rings, and though caller ID suggests an unknown number, I know instantly that it's the Machine. I sigh heavily, annoyed by Its persistence, and blindly snatch the phone up off the pillow next to me.

"What!?" I demand of the white noise on the other end.

"Help, her!"

The voice – though no longer hers – is no less effective. The Machine knows better than to harass me when I'm not in the mood so it would never physically reach out to me unless it was desperate. If you can ever really call a jumble of wires and electricity, _desperate._

"Why?" I reply, refusing to give into it – to her – so easily. I'm nothing if not proud, and I know that It heard what I said to Root at the bar. It's rare that I go back on my word. "You're her all seeing, God. You're the one she's risking her life for. You, help her."

"She will not listen to me."

I laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of such a statement. She worships her Machine, and we both know that she doesn't have the willpower to just ignore it. "I find that hard to believe!"

Though the old me wants nothing more than to mock Its pathetic attempt at manipulation, the new me – the changed me – knows that something is fundamentally and deeply wrong. I can feel it burrowing down to my very bones, scratching and biting at my skin until there's nothing left. I wish, more than anything, that I had the strength to just walk away, but both I and the Machine, know that I don't.

"Why give me her number now?" I ask, sitting up on the bed to pinch at the bridge of my nose, "Why beg me to save her? Why didn't you tell me her odds the day she got shot by, Blackwell?"

There's a pause, "…I did not foresee that outcome."

I find it impossible to believe in an outcome that It couldn't foresee. It foresaw Carter's murder. It foresaw Vigilance. It foresaw Samaritan's creation. It gave Root instructions, it planned her death, hell, it handpicked her as It's interface because it knew that she was the only one reckless enough to sacrifice herself to the cause. The Machine has always known that the ultimate price would be hers, and it will never convince me otherwise.

"You see everything!" I shout, my voice rising in anger though it's direction remains an uncertainty. I'm probably shouting at, It, but I could be shouting at, Root. It's even possible that in some strange, twisted way, I'm shouting at myself. Why can't I just walk away? Why can't I turn my back and leave them to their fate? Just like I have a hundred times before, with a hundred-different people?

"On that day, Samaritan blinded me to the position of its operatives. I did not know her number was up until after she had been shot."

My chest tightens as I realise what that must have been like for her. The shock at having no knowledge of the incoming bullet. The pain of the initial impact. The moment when she realised that her God had let her down. Did she beg Harold for help, or did she calmly offer that beautiful, infuriating smirk, and make an inappropriate joke? What went through her mind when she finally realised that the plan had failed and she was probably going to die? Was she scared?

Because despite her bravado – or maybe in spite of it – Root is no different to anyone else. Yes, she places no real value on her life and no, she's never feared pain or death, but in the end her instinct is still to live, and when it mattered most, none of us were there to save her.

"Why didn't you contact me as soon as you knew?" I ask in a voice so small I barely recognise it as my own.

"It was too late. The bullet punctured her vena cava. It was a wound that would have killed her in minutes."

I nod in silent agreement, finally understanding the brutality of her grave situation. The vena cava is a large vein that carries deoxygenated blood back to the heart. Trauma to it is usually fatal due to rapid and excessive blood loss. She would have literally, drowned in her own blood.

"And yet she lives," I state, as much a reminder to myself as it is a question to the Machine. Just the thought of her alone in that hospital bed, her breathing shallow as her life slowly drained away, surrounded by people that didn't even care…

"A near-impossible side effect of the drug she had taken."

I hastily wipe at a tear that I didn't even realise had fallen - I never used to cry and yet here I am wiping at tears for the second time in a year - "The drug you gave her slowed her heart rate enough to keep her alive?" I ask, drawing from the knowledge of my medical degree to finally figure out how she managed to survive against the odds, "But if the hospital thought her dead, why…"

The Machine predicts my next question before I have time to finish. I hate it when It does that. It reminds me of the smug delight _she_ takes from finishing my sentences. The way she casually hijacks my train of thought and thinks I won't mind as long it comes with a flirtatious wink at the end…

"…Samaritan took over the security feeds in the hospital and Analogue Interface's cochlea implant was malfunctioning. I could not get any definitive readings from inside the building, or from her."

The reality of discovering what really happened on that day sobers my thoughts, "And you assumed it was because she'd…" I swallow sharply, the word sticking painfully in my throat. Seven, long months later and I still can't bring myself to say that word. I can still see the look on John's face when I close my eyes. I can still remember the emptiness I felt as I sat in that playground and prayed that the living nightmare was just another simulation. Where do you go to when your safe place has gone? Half a year without her and it's a question I still haven't found an answer too.

"I was mourning," comes the automated reply.

The answer angers me – infuriates me to the point that I physically shake with supressed rage. As if a non-living, unfeeling, robot could ever feel a fraction of the loss that _we_ felt. It's a suggestion so crass that it's insulting.

I bite back on my choice response, failing to see how a game of 'who hurt the most' will achieve anything. Instead, I request only the facts, "Just answer me straight, was her getting shot ever a part of your _master_ plan?"

"No."

I frown, utterly confused by such an unexpected outcome, "So how did she survive?"

"I cannot be certain. My knowledge of her whereabouts over those seven months is as limited as yours. I do however know that she was held captive at a Samaritan facility in Washington DC. The most likely scenario being that Samaritan alerted his operatives to Analogue Interfaces survival and dispatched several agents to the hospital to retrieve her."

My confusion grows, "Are you saying that Samaritan doctors saved her?"

"Yes."

The thought of Root being saved by the very people who plotted to kill us, seems absurd. They know how important she is to the Machine – to all of us – they would never have gone to the effort of fatally shooting her, only to save her life…

Unless, they wanted something from her.

"And then what?" I demand, seeing her pale, gaunt, haunted face staring back at me through the mirror of the bar. "And then what!? You heard our conversation earlier, you know that I know her implant is gone. What the hell did they do to her?"

"I do not know."

I growl low in my throat and thump the bed in frustration, wishing it was something hard and capable of feeling pain. I may be angry with her, I may hate her for what she put me through, but I am the only one that's allowed to cause her pain and even then, only the good kind. Knowing that Samaritan may have done things to her – things not unlike what they did to me – it makes me want to rip the hearts out of every single one of its operatives with my bare hands.

"But you contacted her?" I say, exasperated by the Machine's overall uselessness. What good is a God that can't interfere? What's the point in having all that power if It can't prevent people from dying, from being shot, from having to manually override a lift when technology fails…

"I could only contact her when she resurfaced, seven months and four days after her disappearance. I spent all the time previous to that believing her gone. It was similar to the time I thought I had lost you."

The bitter taste of resentment burns on my tongue, pulling forth a hatred for the Machine that I never even knew I harboured, "So, you gave up on her too?"

If the Machine were a person, It's response would be laced with guilt, "I never gave up on either of you. I make decisions based on the outcome of thousands of simulations. In both cases, all the simulations I ran yielded negative results."

I grit my teeth, "Are you admitting that you failed her?"

"I am admitting that I failed you both."

In a split second, I'm back there. In that room, tied to that bed, drugged and beaten and forced to kill my friends over and over again. I can feel the sense of despondency as if I were still Samaritan's prisoner, can remember every word of every curse that I ever spat towards the Machine. I blamed, It. I still do. I just never realised it until now.

"Asset Shaw," The Machine interrupts, as if it can hear my inner-most thoughts. "I realise that I never apologised for abandoning you at the Stock Exchange. I should never have discouraged Analogue Interface in her search for you."

I think of Root, of Finch's description of the cities she burnt down in order to get to me, of the destruction she left in her wake. I remember her life-endangering message that came in just enough time to save mine. 4AF

"Did she – did she really, never, give up?"

"She hunted for you to the point of exhaustion, of insanity. Her actions became more and more questionable the more desperate she became. When I realised that she was sacrificing her humanity – everything she had worked so hard to achieve - I knew that she was making decisions that you would not approve of, so I told her to stop."

"So how did…"

"She blackmailed me with a game she referred to as 'Chicken'."

I laugh at that. It's so like, Root, to bargain with her life. She may be intelligent, deadly, and loyal to a fault, but she's also just enough crazy to risk it all on the flip of a coin. If she were a super hero (no, super villain) she'd be The Joker. Someone who tortured, manipulated and murdered her way through life, and all with the most innocent of smiles on her face.

But just the thought that she'd even have to be The Joker is enough to sober my mood. Yes, she's a ruthless killer with a pain kink, and no, she probably doesn't know or care how many people have met their end down the barrel of her gun, but her blood isn't cold and her heart isn't frozen. She feels things far deeper than anyone I've ever known. She loves far greater than I ever imagined possible. Root, is an enigma, and even though she'll have taunted Samaritan until her last breath, inside she'll have felt incredibly alone.

"Do you think they tortured her?" It's a question that I don't want to know the answer too, not really, but now that I've thought about it, I can't seem to think of anything else.

"I do not know. Analogue Interface does not speak of her time with Samaritan."

Root, always talks. About anything and everything, and always at the most inappropriate of times. Like the time she decided to discuss the status of our non-relationship right before I was captured by Samaritan, or when she offered me mid-fight counselling by likening me to a shape. Root always talks, and so I find the fact that she now refuses, somewhat disconcerting.

"But they took her implant?" I ask, trying to clarify the assumption behind my earlier observation.

"Yes."

An emotion I'm not familiar with – regret – hits me so hard and so fast that I feel sucker punched. She told me her implant was gone and I didn't question it. I didn't listen to her. When I think of her appearance now, the hardened expression, the weight loss, it's so obvious that I was looking at the shell of someone who had been to hell and back. But I didn't want to see, I didn't want to know. Accusing her of favouring the Machine was so much easier than facing the truth. That we gave up on her. That _I_ gave up on her. She moved Heaven and Earth to find me when I was missing yet I could barely stay long enough to share a drink. She did try to talk, she tried to talk to me, only I refused to listen.

"She told me they were researching how to make an Analogue Interface like yours," I recall, our conversation coming back to me painful, devastating waves. "Do you think she meant that they experimented on her? On her implant?"

"Yes." I swallow against the finality of the word, the tightness in my chest increasing to the point that I can barely breathe, but the Machine doesn't stop there. "Analogue Interface has many new scars, physical and psychological. When I found her, she was broken?"

"Broken!?"

"It is hard for me to explain. She wasn't _my,_ Analogue Interface anymore."

I want to ask what It means by that but in truth, I'm scared to hear the answer. Root is the most resilient of us all, she's had to be. Her entire life has been one giant battle against the odds and yet somehow, she survived. But if this is it, if this is the one thing that finally brings her to her knees, then there's no hope for any of us.

"Asset Shaw," The Machine begins, detecting my despondent mood, "I understand that you blame me for not only your own capture, but for hers too. I want you to know that while your feelings are justified, she, does not deserve to bear the brunt of your anger."

Something in Its audacious request flicks a switch inside me and a rage, brutal and unforgiving, sweeps in to wash away the guilt. How dare the Machine, defend her. What right does a mass of circuits and code have, to tell _me_ what to think? I let her in. I came to depend on her. I needed her and she was nowhere to be found. No, I don't blame her for getting shot – in a strange sort of way I'm actually proud of her for being willing to sacrifice her life for one that she once sough to end – but I will always blame her for what she did to me. I was fine until she came into my life. Until she threatened me with an iron and relentlessly flirted. Until she made me _feel._

"Why not?" I shout into the phone, unable to keep my tempest of emotions contained any longer. "I told her how important she was too me. I told her that she was my safe place. She, _left_ , me!"

"She never left willingly. Just like you never left her."

It's a dirty trick to compare my capture to hers. Especially since I left _for_ her, to protect her. She didn't even tell me she was going. She turned her back on what we'd built – however warped and twisted it was – to become a nameless, faceless hero, in an unmarked grave. How can I forgive her for that?

There's a long silence before the Machine speaks again, almost as if It's wary of my response. "Analogue Interface, never blamed you."

My answer is bitter, and cold, and wholly unfair, "Your Analogue Interface, isn't me."

We appear to have reached an impasse, the two most important people in Root's life vying for their share of her affection. If she could see us now, she'd laugh. She'd mock us, and tease our somewhat petty argument, and then she'd probably fuck me into next week for being 'so darned cute'. But she isn't here, and that's the problem.

"Every choice she makes is with you in mind," The Machine continues, ignorant of my chagrin. "Similarly, every choice Samaritan makes is with her in mind."

That catches my attention, "What do you mean?"

"When Samaritan realised it could not break you, it used you in the hopes of capturing Analogue Interface instead. Since then, every decision Samaritan has made with regards to us has been with that end goal in mind. To capture Analogue Interface for study and potential replication. On that day, I believe that based on the probable actions of Analogue Interface, my blindness on the sniper's route and at the hospital, and the placement of Samaritan's agents, the shooting and kidnapping of Analogue Interface was planned."

"By, Samaritan?"

"Yes."

Though I don't want to admit it, something about that theory just seems to make sense. It would certainly explain why Samaritan's agents left clues for Root to follow in the aftermath of my capture, little breadcrumbs to keep the eager bird interested. It would also explain why Samaritan allowed Root's message to reach me. Why it bargained with her and lured her to Its facility under false pretences.

"Is she really that valuable?"

"I would have thought that a question, that you, of all people, would never need to ask. But yes, Analogue Interface is a computer genius, an elite assassin and the fastest and quickest route to me."

In a moment of weakness, I bend. I actually find myself feeling sorry for her, pitying her for becoming the unwilling pawn in this apocalyptic game of chess. But then I remember that Root would never allow herself to be the pawn. Root, has always been the queen.

"She knew what she was getting herself into when she agreed to be your puppet."

"Analogue Interface is not my puppet. Analogue Interface is my best friend. And though she agreed to me, she never agreed to you."

Every muscle tenses at the insinuation that I'm somehow the outlier in her crazy, hectic life. I'm not the one that tracked her down. I'm not the one that practically stalked her out of hiding. I wasn't the one that first brandished zip-ties, a hood, and a seductive smile. "What's that supposed to mean?" I challenge, insulted.

"Analogue Interface set out to find me. In finding me she was led, unexpectedly, to you. Everything about her began to change after your initial meeting."

"So, you're saying this is my fault?" I scoff, daring the Machine to confirm what I already thought.

"No. I am saying that meeting you has permanently altered her perception of reality. In layman's terms, Analogue Interface is in love with you, and this, at times, causes her to act irrationally and recklessly."

Hearing those words spoken out loud, is no surprise. In truth, I've known the depth of Root's feelings for me, for a long time now. It's in the way she smiles at me. The way she finds any excuse possible to touch me or get close to me. The way she barely whispers my name at the point of climax and thinks that I can't hear her. I know that she's in love with me, I've always known, but I refuse to acknowledge that I am somehow to blame. I didn't ask for this - I didn't ask for her – and I will not be held to ransom for being emotionally unable to reciprocate.

"She's an idiot," I reply, perhaps unkindly. "I warned her not to let herself get too involved with me. I told her that I could never give her what she wanted. I'm not going to take responsibility for her inability to listen."

"The responsibility is not yours to take, just as your feelings are no less mutual despite how hard you fight them."

"I'm not fighting anything!"

"Chance of Primary Asset Shaw lending assistance to Analogue Interface is 98.24% This has risen 42.19% since learning of Analogue Interface's capture and current chance of survival."

I clench my jaw, "Stop trying to second guess me!"

"I am merely running simulations."

"So, stop it!" I want to ignore the words that are reeled off so matter of fact, I want to prove them all wrong by simply turning my back, but I can't. As much as I miss the emotionless simplicity of my old life, I have to let it go. Gone, are the days of, Indigo Five Alpha. She died with a needle to the back, on the streets of New York. Root may have dragged me kicking and screaming, to where I am now, but I can't keep pretending that I'm not here, in this strange new world of feelings, and fear, and dare I say it…love. I take a deep breath, knowing the fight is finally lost, and mutter the one question I've been trying desperately to avoid, "Is she really in trouble?"

"Analogue Interface's current chance of survival stands at 0.54%"

"Damnit!" With that one exasperated word, I surrender, already pulling on my boots, reaching for my guns and grabbing for my coat by the time I issue my next set of instructions. "Tell me where she is. And contact Fusco and Finch."


End file.
